


Boxer's Fracture

by Anni Re (AnniRe)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Braids, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hair, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnniRe/pseuds/Anni%20Re
Summary: It's always a good rule of thumb that when you break a knuckle you remove any rings, magical or others, from your fingers if you have any hope of removing them at all.  Bilbo did not know this, but one swing of a sword would teach him well.  Bagginshield.





	Boxer's Fracture

Boxer’s Fracture

 

            The armies clashed like thunderclouds, raging over the field, and Bilbo was caught in the torrent. Blood made the ground slick and the bodies of men, elves and orcs that towered above him almost seemed to darken the sky. The air was scare and hot in his lungs. Then, there was the noise. If it wasn’t the deafening cries of the dwarvish chargers it was the baying of the nearly dead.

            Bilbo’s magic ring clung tight to his finger as he flitted between the adversaries, striking where he could and darting away before he was detected. Sting was dipped black in orc blood and his arm ached up to his shoulder. His face and hair were smeared with dust and sweat, making his eyes burn and skin itch. Not for the first time, he thought this would be the last orc. This would be the last orc before he drug himself to the edge of the fray, for this well and truly was no place for a hobbit. But, each and every time he would see the glint of an elvish blade arc through the air or a dwarven helm catching the sun and he would follow it. For how could he leave a fight when his company, his friends, and his beloved battled on?

            Bilbo cut the tendon of a passing orc and let an elf make quick work of the rest, his eyes ever searching. A body nearly tripped over him, fowl smelling leather scrubbing his face as it went down. Bilbo nearly gagged, blinking the mud and sweat away. Then like a column of light breaking though the clouds, he was there. Thorin twisted Orcrist, emanating a pale blue light, cleaving through an orcish breastplate. His hair was a tangled mess and his clothes and hands were coated in grime, but his eyes were as clear as a summer sky, free from the fever of madness. Thorin let out a bellowing rally in khuzdul and out of the bedlam came Fili and Kili, pushing back the enemy with their uncle. Bilbo could have wept.

            Bilbo lost track of how many meters Thorin’s army gained with its king at its spear point. The sun hung low in the sky and the enemy was thinning, but not yet broken. Bilbo dogged them, ever in their shadow. Kili fired an arrow in into an orc’s head, his quiver containing a motely collecting of elven arrows amongst his own.

            “Uncle, their ranks are breaking. We can route them,” Kili called out, shooting again.

            “We can win this,” cried out Fili, carried away with his own enthusiasm. His moustache was dyed a strawberry blond.

“Steady on,” Thorin growled out. “Don’t get separated.”

Bilbo overheard, unseen beside them, doing what he could without drawing attention to himself. Bilbo sighed, relieved that there was an end in sight. He dropped Sting slightly; carrying is loosely against his body. He felt a heartbeat in his hands. Bilbo glanced down, the gold of the simple band in stark contrast to the silver weave in Sting’s hilt. The ring was so tight around his third finger it almost seemed to be squeezing.

Thorin briefly leaned against his sword, looking about. He was so close that Bilbo could reach out and brush the flecks of dust off his shoulder if he so dared. Thorin’s cheeks were blotched by the cold and when he moved his braids of dark hair behind his ear, Bilbo saw that he had split a knuckle. “We need to regroup,” Thorin bellowed. “Fall back.”

Bilbo was just ahead, his legs heavy with exhaustion, as the trio awkwardly backtracked over the dead. Bilbo moved a few more steps away and paused, breathing deeply, while he waited for them.

It came out of nowhere, cutting across Bilbo’s field of vision that he jerked his head back in surprise. Over his shoulder, Bilbo heard Fili grunt, his swords slipping from his fingers, numbly pawing at the black-shafted arrow imbedded in his shoulder. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Blinking owlishly, Bilbo watched Fili stumble, blood pumping though his fingers. Kili grabbed at his brother, bracing his fall and Thorin brought down Orcrist and turned to look back, eyes wide with concern. Only Bilbo saw the jagged orcish blade cutting through the chaos, aimed at Thorin’s exposed back. Time sped up again, and everything was moving too fast.

“Fili!”

“Thorin!”

Bilbo’s cry was cut off with a garbled grunt of pain. Bilbo had darted between Thorin and the blade, bringing Sting up to block with more desperation than skill. With a sour clang, Bilbo deflected the weapon with the hilt and pommel of his own. His hand felt like it had been crushed and his finger’s could barely wrap around Sting’s hilt now slick with his own blood. Dazed, Bilbo was surprised he still had fingers.

Bilbo didn’t have much time to linger on the pain in his hand. Almost immediately, Bilbo felt something big and blunt crack against the back of his head. Bilbo felt his neck stiffen and his tongue grew heavy in his mouth. With his uninjured hand, Sting hanging limply in the other, Bilbo reached back, feeling his scalp. Bilbo brought his hand around and stared with muddled surprise at the blood sluggishly dripping down his fingers. Through hazy eyes, Bilbo looked between his fingers at Thorin, the orc who meant to kill him cut down at his feet. Thorin paused, Orcrist guarding his chest. He was searching; listening, hope and uncertainty glimmering like an ember in his eye. For a moment, Thorin locked eyes with Bilbo before carrying on, shifting his focus back to the battle.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, but he wasn’t sure if the name passed his lips. The ground beneath his was soupy and his ankles were sinking into it. The world tilted sideways and Bilbo tumbled with it, crumpling to the ground, smelling nothing but wintery earth.

 

_Bilbo was sprawled out on the grass. Propped up against a tree, Bilbo dug his feet into the long lush blades. The lights of Beorn’s home winked in the distance. Bilbo took another drag from his pipe, balanced between his fingers. The silvery blue smoke wafted above his head, blown around by a late summer breeze._

_“You should not be out here alone Master Baggins.” Thorin’s baritone voice reverberated through Bilbo’s bones. Bilbo lazily turned his head to Thorin, arms crossed amidst the tall grass._

_“I’m not alone anymore am I?” said Bilbo. He took another pull from his pipe, exhaling in a steady stream. “Would you care to join me?”_

_Bilbo shook the cinders in his bowl, hearing Thorin shift in his heavy boots. Bilbo looked up again to see Thorin easing himself down against the tree. Thorin was not wearing any armor and his braids hung loose over the shoulders of his dark blue shirt. “What are you doing out here,” asked Thorin._

_Bilbo settled back against the trunk as well. “Soon it will be too cold for fireflies. I wanted to see them while I could.” Bilbo pointed out into the field. Amidst the sprigs of heather and foxglove jigged groupings of fireflies as big as buckeyes._

_The two sat in companionate silence, not knowing what to say to each other. Thorin folded and re-folded his hands. Bilbo extended the pipe to Thorin in an attempt to break the tension. Thorin looked at it for a moment, his eyebrow subtly lifting before accepting the long stem. “My thanks,” he murmured. The two lapsed back into silence, the only movement between them being the passing of the pipe._

_I sit beside the fire and think_

_of people long ago_

_and people who will see a world_

_that I shall never know._

_But, all the while I sit and think_

_of times there were before_

_I listen to returning feet_

_and voices at my door._

_Bilbo heard Thorin shift and realized with a jolt that he was singing to himself. Bilbo’s mouth clicked shut and glanced over at Thorin who was regarding Bilbo with a curious expression, Bilbo’s pipe balanced between his fingers. “Sorry,” said Bilbo quickly. “I didn’t realize.”_

_“It’s alright,” said Thorin. “It’s nice.”_

_Bilbo cocked his head a bit. “I didn’t think you cared for music,” he said._

_Thorin chuckled, but it was different, like the crackling of a homely hearth. “In another life, I was very fond of music,” said Thorin. “I even played a little.”_

_A small smile played on Thorin’s lips, hidden by his beard. Almost without realizing, Thorin relaxed more against the trunk of the tree, taking another pull from the pipe. His eyes were far away; big and blue like the Brandywine. Bilbo was both in awe and terrified of how easily he could drown in them. Bilbo looked away, giving Thorin a moment of privacy._

_“Perhaps one day you’ll play for us,” said Bilbo, running a hand through his hair._

_“Perhaps,” said Thorin, lightly. Thorin passed the pipe back to Bilbo. “Thank you for the smoke. It was pleasant.”_

_“I’m glad,” said Bilbo. He expected Thorin to depart and leave him with his fireflies, yet, Thorin lingered. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin thin his lips._

_“Bilbo,” said Thorin, trailing off. “I never thanked you for saving my life.”_

_“You don’t need to thank me,” mumbled Bilbo, not knowing where to look._

_“No,” said Thorin, staring straight ahead. “I need to…I…” Thorin took in a shaky breath before beginning again. “It is difficult for me to say what needs to be said. I have often lashed out at you in anger when I am actually concerned. But, you have shown yourself to be quite capable and a dear member of this Company.”_

_Bilbo looked at Thorin’s profile. The far away firelight caught the silver strands in his hair. Bilbo had to keep himself from touching it. “Thorin,” said Bilbo, his throat tight. Thorin still didn’t look at him. “I like you too.”_

_Bilbo heard Thorin’s breath hitch slightly as he turned towards him. His face and body were still, ever guarded. Yet, his eyes were reaching out with a timid vulnerability that Bilbo didn’t think Thorin was capable of. Bilbo tilted his head, eyeing the swell of Thorin’s lips, surrounded by thick scruff. Bilbo edged forward. Thorin remained unmoving. The only sound he made was the slight exhale of breath when Bilbo gently cupped his cheek. To Bilbo, Thorin’s face felt rough, rugged and warm. Bilbo drew himself up to Thorin’s lips and found they were the same._

_Bilbo moved slowly, deliberately, like he was untangling a knot. Everywhere Bilbo’s fingers moved, from Thorin’s cheek to the underside of his strong jaw, Thorin relaxed until they were flush against each other. Thorin hummed into Bilbo’s mouth and Bilbo’s hand clasped the back of Thorin’s neck. The tips of his fingers brushed against the beads woven into his hair._

_Thorin and Bilbo broke for air, Bilbo seeing stars blinking between the fireflies. Thorin cocked his head, the corners of his lips turning up in a small, shy, smile. “Out of all the things that could have come from this journey,” he said, thumbing one of Bilbo’s curls, “this was the most unexpected.”_

_“Not unwanted I hope,” murmured Bilbo, leaning into Thorin’s touch._

_“No,” said Thorin, a short laugh reverberating in his chest, “not unwanted.”_

_Bilbo kissed Thorin again, rolling his jaw against his mouth. Bilbo felt Thorin’s arm, banded with toned muscle, loop around his back. “Thorin,” said Bilbo, sucking in lungfulls of cold air while Thorin trailed light kissed down his exposed neck. Bilbo felt goose pimples pepper his skin and he was wondering if it was because of Thorin or the sudden rush of cold. “Thorin,” Bilbo said again, but Thorin didn’t seem to hear him. His hand was aching._

“Thorin…”

Bilbo tore his eyes open, staring at a blank, black sky. All the air came out of him in one long groan. His body was stiff against the cold ground and there was a sheen of frost over his face and the ends of his fingers. Bilbo watched his air condense in a cloud above him. It took him more than a moment to realize he wasn’t dead.

Bilbo barely shifted to assess his surrounding before the pain rammed him like a charging bull. Bilbo grunted and gave a low moan, curling himself up into a ball around his injured hand. Through watery eyes, Bilbo examined his fingers. Blooming out from his middle knuckles, his second, third and fourth fingers were navy blue and purple. A cut ran in a descending diagonal line down his digits, oozing brown blood through half formed scabs. Bilbo’s magic ring remained resting around his middle finger, seemingly untouched by the scars of the battlefield. Bilbo could only conclude that the little gold band glanced the blow of the blade meant for Thorin’s head and thus saved Bilbo’s fingers, at least somewhat. Cautiously, Bilbo probed the abused flesh around the edge of the ring. Bilbo’s face screwed up as he thrashed against his own ministrations, panting in pain. Two of his fingers may have been bruised but the third was definitely broken.

Gingerly, Bilbo turned and rested on his side, cradling his injured hand to his chest. There was a headache pounding behind his eyes and the whole world seemed to be swaying on the deck of a ship. It was dark and the battle was over. He was surrounded by the dark mounds of bodies littering the fields before Erebor. Bilbo turned an eye to the mountain itself and saw lights coming from the gates, which were thrown open. He hoped they were the fires of victory rather than conquest. Bilbo closed his eyes. He was so tired and his body ached to the point of not being able to move. Wintery wind blew about his clothes and he shivered against it.

Bilbo opened his eyes again. The dancing lights of Erebor were closer; or rather one had broken off and was coming towards him. Bilbo shook his head, clearing it of cloudy thoughts. It was a trio of torchlights, illuminating the unmistakable, stocky silhouettes of dwarves.

“Hello,” Bilbo tried to call out, but his mouth could barely form words and all that came out was a whispery garble of sounds. “Hello,” he tried again.

The three dwarves didn’t seem to hear him. The lights from their torches drifted away from him and then back again, like waves on a shore. Finally, they drew close enough that Bilbo was able to make out their faces. Dwalin had a cut over his left eyebrow that would leave a scar. His knuckle-dusters glinted in the firelight. Balin’s long, white beard was tousled and streaked with dirt. Thorin was leaning heavily on his right leg; yet he limped on out before the other two, torch held in front of him as he turned back and forth. Thorin shouted something, but Bilbo couldn’t make it out.

Bilbo tied to bring his feet under him, but his legs felt spongy and tingly. The earth was spinning and Bilbo could hardly tell what was up or down. Desperately trying to ground himself on the winking lights in the distance, Bilbo’s feet and knees slid out from under him again and again. All Bilbo managed to accomplish was drunkenly flailing a few feet before collapsing in a heap.

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo braced himself on his elbow and thrust his uninjured hand into the air, waving it frantically. “Thorin,” said Bilbo, trying to force his slurred words over his teeth. “Thorin. Hello.”

Thorin, Balin and Dwalin wandered closer to him, but not towards him. Bilbo waved his hand more, his fingers straining. Bilbo bit his lip, rocking in frustration. He could understand why his companions couldn’t hear him; Bilbo could barely hear himself. But, why was it so hard to see him?

Bilbo’s hand stilled in the air as he realized with a jolt that it wasn’t just hard to see him, it was impossible. That was why he was wearing the ring in the first place. With dread gathering in his stomach, Bilbo gazed down at the ring, the gold almost creating its own light. His skin was puffy and swollen around the band. With the tips of his fingers, Bilbo reached down and pulled. The pain caused a white light to pass over Bilbo’s eyes and he nearly passed out. Bilbo tossed his head about and his feet dug into the earth, but no matter how much he pulled and screwed and pushed he couldn’t get the ring over his bulbous knuckle. Tears were leaking out of Bilbo’s eyes and there was a thin sheet of sweat covering his body because it just hurt so much.

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried out, his voice cracking.

They were so close, yards away. Bilbo could see their belt buckles, the toes of their boots, the beads in their hair. Thorin gripped his left thigh, wincing, the firelight casting dark lines on his face. Balin approached him, his face both somber and supplicating. Balin put a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, speaking so gently Bilbo could hardly see his lips move. Thorin shrugged it off trudging forward a few steps before Dwalin grasped Thorin by the elbow. Thorin whipped around, shoulders squared, eyes flashing like blue flame. Bilbo didn’t need to know what Thorin was saying to understand he was speaking sharply to Dwalin. The two dwarves glared at each other for a moment more before Thorin readjusted his cloak and carried on. Thorin called out again and the wind just managed to carry it over to the hobbit sprawled on the ground. “Bilbo.”

Balin glanced over at his brother and Dwalin shook his head, before dutifully following his king. Balin’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“No, no,” murmured Bilbo, frantically tugging at the ring again. “Please, come back.” The torchlight doubled, tripled, and returned to normal before finally going out. Bilbo was sweating from the cold. His eyes were heavy and he felt himself falling even as he fought to stand. “Thorin…Thorin…”

 

_“Thorin?”_

_Bilbo rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pulled his head out of the nest of fluffy, feathery pillows. The simple room was bathed in the orange glow of candlelight, keeping the autumn chill at bay. Bilbo blinked looking around. He had heard something. Bilbo found his bedmate sitting perfectly centered before the window, the expanse of Laketown laid out below him. Thorin stopped humming the deep doldrums of his people and turned. His fingers were steepled over his lips. “Go back to sleep, Bilbo,” he said fondly._

_Bilbo rolled his eyes and rolled out of the bed that was much too big for him, dragging the blanket around him to cover his nakedness. Thorin wore only his breeches, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Bilbo settled into Thorin’s lap, Thorin’s hands resting around his middle, and looked at their opaque reflections in the panes. Bilbo tilted his head into Thorin’s bare shoulder, waiting, knowing that Thorin would speak in his own time._

_“Tomorrow, the fate of our quest will be decided.”_

_“Are you worried?” asked Bilbo._

_“I’m going to risk my company, my kin and above all you for the sake of my birthright. I do not know if I’m worthy of such a sacrifice.”_

_“You are, Thorin,” said Bilbo. He rubbed a small circle into Thorin’s hand._

_Bilbo felt Thorin’s head drop, the crown of his head resting between his shoulder blades. “Don’t go tomorrow,” Thorin murmured._

_“Thorin,” Bilbo began, but Thorin tightened his grip._

_“Please.”_

_Bilbo twisted around to look at Thorin, who was focused on the window. Bilbo sighed, cupping the side of his head, running his fingers through the black tendrils all the way to the tips. “I want to go, Thorin. I have to go. You need me to see if the dragon still lives.”_

_Thorin grimaced and Bilbo back-tracked and tried again. “I didn’t come all this way not to do the last leg of the trip.” Bilbo paused. “I want to end this with you; whatever end that may be.”_

_Thorin still didn’t look at Bilbo. He shook his head slightly, leaning into Bilbo’s touch. Finally, he looked up, eyes over bright. “I love you, ghivashel.”_

_“You keep using that word,” said Bilbo. “What does it mean?”_

_“It means greatest jewel,” said Thorin._

_“Like the Arkenstone?” asked Bilbo._

_Thorin was silent, contemplating, his fingers ghosting over the shell of Bilbo’s ear. Not for the first time, Bilbo was uncomfortable and entranced by Thorin’s gaze. “The Arkenstone is the heirloom of my people, the sigil of my kingship,” stated Thorin, “but to be loved by you, my ghivashel, that is the far greater prize.”_

_Bilbo felt himself flush and awkwardly scrubbed the back of his head. “I don’t know if I’m all that, Thorin.”_

_Thorin chuckled deep in his chest, leaning forward to cup Bilbo’s face in his hands. “You are.”_

_Thorin kissed Bilbo and it about stole the breath from him. Bilbo pulled himself closer to Thorin, feeling the heat from his chest pulse through his body. Bilbo lightly fingered the thatch of hair at the base of Thorin’s throat. Bilbo shifted and felt the blanket fall off his shoulders pooling around his hips._

_“Thorin,” said Bilbo, shuddering at the sudden chill._

“Thorin.” Bilbo’s eyes opened, gently pulled from his dream, Thorin’s name hanging off his chapped lips. The stars were fading into the pale purple light of dawn. Snow had fallen, dusting the battlefield with a shroud of lace. It caught on Bilbo’s eyelashes, causing him to blink rapidly. Every bone cracked and every muscle screamed as Bilbo turned over, resting on all fours as the world settled. He was still woozy, but not as much as before he fainted.

Bilbo glanced down at his hand, grimacing. The bruising had gone almost all the way to the nail bed and his fingernails were blue from the cold. His broken knuckle was so stiff and swollen he could scarcely move it.

Bilbo clutched his hand to his chest, blowing into his hands. “Alright, on you feet, Bilbo Baggins.”

With no small effort, Bilbo stood, his back popping all the way up. Wobbly as a foal, Bilbo meandered through the remains of the battlefield, shaking his head periodically to free it from cobwebs. He cradled his injured hand with the other, cringing whenever a bolt of pain shot down his wrist. He had to find a way to get this ring off. There was nothing anyone could do if they couldn’t see him to do it.

Bilbo stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a pile of black armor and orchish shields, frozen together with permafrost. In the distance, dyed coral and cerulean by the coming day were the Ravenhill falls. They were beginning to freeze. Slugging streams of water dripped from the ice packed river above. Bilbo’s throat constricted at the sight. He was so thirsty.

Bilbo shuffled over to the falls, feeling like he was journeying to the Shire and back for how long it was taking him. Bilbo’s eyes were on a constant swivel. He wondered if Thorin and the Company were still looking for him, but Bilbo saw no one on the field but corpses. Even half frozen, the Ravenhill falls thundered around Bilbo, making his headache thrum, but he was so parched Bilbo almost didn’t notice. Bilbo more fell down than sat in the pebbly shoals of the churning pool, shoveling water into his mouth. It was so cold that it almost burned his insides, settling unsteadily in his stomach.

Droplets dripping from his mouth, Bilbo sat back on his heels, mist wafting over his face. He looked down at his injured hand. The ring was centered in a field of purplish black tinged with green, comically unharmed in comparison to its surroundings. The skin around his knuckles was swollen to the edge of the ring and only now did Bilbo notice his finger angled more to the left than it had previously. Bilbo had no hope of getting this ring off if he couldn’t get the swelling down. Through his fingers, Bilbo watched a small bit of pale blue ice plunge into the pool, blending itself into nothing.

Bilbo dropped his hand into the water without much further thought, letting out a huff in surprise as the unrelenting cold gripped his hand. Bilbo closed his eyes and curled up into a ball, willing himself to keep his hand in the water. After several minutes, or several seconds, Bilbo couldn’t tell, he pulled his fingers out. He groaned in the back of his throat, trying to flex his digits before submerging them again.

Bilbo chewed on the meat of his thumb, shivering sporadically, wriggling his fingers beneath the water. His eyes were heavy and the back of his head, shoulders, and spine had formed a column of discomfort. Bilbo pulled his hand out again, pinched the ring between his fingers and pulled. It didn’t budge. “Come on you blasted thing,” grumbled Bilbo.

Bilbo pulled harder, pushing his pain threshold to breaking point, but the ring couldn’t quite crest the apex of his knuckle. Bilbo kicked the ground, sending small stones flying from beneath his heel, tears pricking his eyes. “Come on!”

Frantic, and rapidly approaching hysterical, Bilbo plunged both hands into the water, turning the ring about his fingers with increasing desperation. Bilbo was shaking from both the cold and exertion, water seeping up his shirtsleeves. Babbling incoherently, Bilbo cast his eyes about, wildly thinking that he should just cut his finger off and be rid of the thing.

And then, without fuss or fanfare, the ring cleared over his knuckle, as simple as if you’d asked it to. It slipped from the tip of Bilbo’s finger and for a split second, it free fell through the murky water. Bilbo gasped and dove his arms into the depths up to his shoulders. His chin bobbed in the water as he grabbed the ring with both hands. He wasn’t going to lose this ring to a creek bed after all the trouble it caused him. Bilbo reeled himself back onto the shore, collapsing on his back with a wet thud. His breath came out in great, heaving gasps while he laughed weakly, high on euphoria and relief. Bilbo tilted his head up from the ground, giving a lingering look to his ring resting in the palm of his hand. “You’re quite troublesome,” he said before pocketing it in his trousers.

Bilbo’s adrenaline wore off within minutes. By the time Bilbo reached the ruined gates of Erebor he was shuffling, back bent, cradling his hand in the crook of his arm. Several dwarves from the Iron Hills stood as sentinels, but beyond them, looking much like the ancient statues that surrounded him, was Gandalf. His hat was pulled over his eyes and he was steadily smoking. Bilbo approached him. “Gandalf,” he said, voice laden with exhaustion.

Bilbo didn’t think the wizard was capable of being surprised, but he was proven wrong. The wizard started, pipe nearly tumbling from his fingers. He coughed and sputtered, looking at Bilbo with wide, round eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf in what could only be described as awe.

That awe was soon replaced by Gandalf’s characteristic prickliness. “Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf tersely, “where do you think you have been? Off gallivanting while the entire Company looked—”

“Gandalf,” said Bilbo, cutting him off, not in the mood to be chastised, “my hand is broken.”

Gandalf deflated almost immediately, nodding. “Well,” he said, “we’d best go and find Master Oin then. Come along.”

Gandalf guided Bilbo into Erebor, his large hand never leaving Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo didn’t mind, perfectly happy to be steered to whatever destination Gandalf had in mind. Around him, queues of tents had been assembled down the enormous halls and the entire mountain was teeming with activity. In spite of his weariness, Bilbo was happy. A place this grand should never be left to ruin. Thorin’s great dream had come to fruition. Bilbo perked up and looked around, hoping that Thorin was come bursting from the crowds and whisk him away to a quite place with a soft bed and a warm bath. “Where’s Thorin,” Bilbo mumbled, but Gandalf didn’t answer, turning the pair of them into a large, white tent.

“I have found our burglar,” announced Gandalf. “He’s been injured but is otherwise unharmed.”

Bilbo jolted back to reality when a pair of hands gripped him. Oin pulled him firmly down on a medical cot. “Now don’t you leave Mister Bilbo,” said Oin. He pushed a steaming cup into his hands. “Here, it will help with the pain.”

Bilbo sipped, tasting honey thick on his tongue. After a few mouthfuls, Bilbo was able to take in more of his surroundings.

Oin was bustling between the medical cots, one of which contained Fili, his shoulder wrapped in white linen. Another held Bifur, unconscious and, to Bilbo’s alarm, no ax in his forehead. Kili and Bofur sat with them. Lastly, Bombur was alongside Gandalf at the flaps of the tent, bouncing on his toes.

Fili stirred and twisted his head to look at Bilbo. “Well hello, Bilbo,” said Fili, “you are well met indeed.”

“Master Baggins,” exclaimed Kili, “we thought you were dead.”

Bilbo about spat out his tea. “Dead,” he said, startled. “Why would you think that?”

“We looked all night for you when you turned up missing,” supplied Bofur, “and then this morning, Nori found your sword.”

“We thought you had been trampled or gobbled up by a warg,” Kili added.

“Now, now, don’t let the lads pester you,” said Oin, returning to Bilbo with a splint and some bandages. “Drink your tea and I’ll tend to your hand. Bombur, run get some food. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”

Bilbo numbly looked down at his fingers, hissing when Oin settled them into their splint. Oin looked at him sympathetically. Honestly, Master Baggins are all hobbits this worrisome or is it just you?”

Behind them, Gandalf chuckled. “Bilbo is the most uncommon of hobbits, both in the ability to get himself into trouble and get himself out of it.” Gandalf rested his hand on the top of Bilbo’s head. Bilbo looked up to sparkling eyes. “Be well, dear Bilbo. I will call on you later today.” The wizard smoothly departed the tent, leaving Bilbo alone with his compatriots.

Bombur came back minutes later with a stew made from a rabbit that was too thin and carrots that were too small. It was the most glorious thing he’d ever eaten. Bilbo had just managed a few spoonfulls before Gloin wandered into the tent. “Brother, I’ve come with a request from Ironfoot. He needs—good gracious hobbit. We thought you lost.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Bilbo, leaning against the back of his cot. “Was I the only one unaccounted for?”

“Aye,” said Gloin. “Baker’s dozen of cuts and scrapes between the lot of us. Fili got shot in the shoulder and Bifur here knocked himself out so hard his ax came clear out of his head. Thorin took a nasty cut on his leg, but that didn’t stop him from hobbling through the fields looking for you.”

Bilbo’s lips thinned and he straightened slightly. “Where is Thorin, by the way?” Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Gloin shifted awkwardly, but before he could say a word the tent flap rippled open again and Dori, Nori and Ori flooded in. “The wizard told me you had been found,” said Nori striding forward and slapping Bilbo on the back, “but I had to see it for myself.”

Dori flanked Nori, skittering forward to readjust Bilbo’s pillows. “Oh bless him,” said Dori, near tears, “look at you. You look like you’ve had one foot in the grave. Have you eaten anything? Have you taken some of Oin’s tea?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, allowing Dori to fret over him. “I just finished.”

“Ori, get the lad more tea,” said Dori, fluffing the pillow for the fifth time.

“Where was this frittering for me, Dori?” called out Fili from his bed.

“You haven’t been missing for an entire night and day,” supplied Dori.

“I’m still injured,” objected Fili.

Bilbo tuned out Dori and Fili’s banter when Ori pressed a second cup of tea into his hands. “Thank you, Ori,” said Bilbo, “are you well?” Bilbo tried to point to Ori’s cheek as best as he could with a braced hand.

“Yes,” said Ori, “my first war wound. Nori is very proud.”

“It’s lucky,” said Nori, cutting in, “and little lasses love the scars.” Nori turned to Bilbo. “So, see you’ve got a boxer’s fracture there.”

“A what?” asked Bilbo.

“You broke your knuckle,” said Nori. “What’d you do? Punch an orc in the head?”

“His sword, actually.”

Nori whistled. “Oin, did you count to make sure Bilbo still has all of his fingers?”

Bilbo laughed along with the others, but it soon died in his throat when, on the fringes of his friends, he spied Balin. The older dwarf looked like he had run all the way there.

“Bilbo,” Balin breathed, his face slack with stunned amazement.

“Balin,” said Bilbo.

“You’re alive.”

Bilbo nodded his throat tight. He leaned forward, his eye, silently begging. “Balin,” said Bilbo, “where is he?”

“He,” Balin’s voice broke, and he swallowed. “He wanted to be alone.”

“May I see him?” asked Bilbo.

Balin looked at him. “You want to see him. Truly?”

Bilbo, nodded, throat too tight to speak.

A band of tension seemed to break within Balin and he nodded jerkily. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to him right now.”

Bilbo jumped up from the bed, staggering a little when a rush of light-headedness passed over him, but he righted himself quickly. “Balin,” said Oin. “Bilbo needs healing.”

“He needs to see him,” said Balin pointedly, his tone allowing no further argument. Balin put a hand on the small of Bilbo’s back. “Come, Bilbo,” he said, leaving the tent.

Balin walked Bilbo purposely down the halls, turning right, left, and another right. Shafts of sunlight followed them deep into the mountain, making the ruined kingdom all the more grand. Bilbo looked up at the wide columns holding up the mountainous ceiling until he felt dizzy. Bilbo slowed down, releasing his breath in a long exhale.

Balin looked at him. “Do you need to rest?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” huffed Bilbo, returning to pace.

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Balin, “you gave us all quite the scare.”

Bilbo looked down at his feet, feeling like a troublesome fauntling. “I’m sorry for all the distress I’ve caused,” he murmured.

“There now, laddie,” said Balin a hand resting on the back of his shoulders. “None of that. You’re here, and that’s what matters to us, especially to him.”

Bilbo followed Balin through halls that grew smaller and smaller with each turn. The dwarrow grew scarce as well until it was just he and Balin turning into an offshoot of an obscure corridor. Dwalin was that the end of the unadorned passage. He we guarding an open entryway with an austere expression and crossed arms. Both his arms and his jaw dropped when he saw Bilbo.

“Durin’s beard, hobbit,” he groused, “where have you been?”

“Enough, brother,” said Balin sharply, before cutting himself off with a sigh. Balin turned Bilbo towards him, half-heartedly brushing at his shoulders. He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back, an air of regality falling over him. “The king is within,” Balin said.

Bilbo swallowed. Thorin was king now, with a realm, with an army, with an heirloom Bilbo had swept out from under his nose. Bilbo readjusted his splint and ran a hand through his hair before entering.

Bilbo descended a small set of stairs before coming to a small alcove hewn roughly from rock. Bilbo thought it must have been a storeroom. Boxes were stacked about; boards warped and cracked, half eaten by termites. They were covered by dusty tarps riddled with moth holes. Thorin was in the center of it all, rooting Bilbo to the spot, hidden by the shadow of the stairs.

Thorin was on his hands and knees, shirt rent, forehead pressed into the dirt. His shoulders and back were shaking from his weeping. Sting lay a few inches away from him. Bilbo watched, rendered mute, as Thorin clenched himself into a tighter ball. Thorin fisted the soft earth, dust and pebbles coming up in his grip. Thorin smeared it onto his face and over his hair, adding another layer of silt to what was already there. Thorin gripped his scalp, his face screwing up, twisting it deeper into the ground. “Birashagimi, ghivashel,” he whispered brokenly. “Forgive me, please.” Thorin’s whimpers, devolved again into pitiful keening, tears making damp tracks down his filthy cheeks.

Thorin took a great gasp like it required all his effort to even breath and let out a shuddering exhale. He pulled himself up onto his knees. His face was dead save for his eyes, which were shining with grief. Thorin pulled on his tattered shirt, tugging it almost over his shoulders. Thorin reached and dragged Sting towards him, the blade ringing on the rocks. With one hand, Thorin seized a fistful of his hair, the other bringing Sting up to meet it.

“Don’t!” Bilbo found his voice at last and sent it echoing around the room.

Thorin jerked, the blade nearly flying from his grip. He spun clumsily, landing on his backside, staring open mouthed at Bilbo who edged out of the shadows. “Please don’t do that,” Bilbo added quietly.

Bilbo nervously fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt as Thorin stared unblinking, with and unreadable expression. Thorin’s pale lips twitched, trying to form words.

“Have you come to haunt me?” Thorin croaked.

Bilbo lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve come to bring you back upstairs. It’s drafty down here.”

Bilbo leaned in the direction of the exit, the slight movement sending Thorin scrambling back to his knees. He reached out, dirty hair hanging wildly about his face. “Please don’t go,” he pleaded. “Please, I can’t bear it. Not this.”

Bilbo let out a little breath. “I’m not going anywhere, Thorin,” said Bilbo, “at least nowhere that you can’t come right along with me.” Bilbo tried to point back the way he came, but then he remembered his dominant hand was splinted.

Thorin squinted. “Your hand.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, turning his wrist about to examine Oin’s handiwork. Nori called it a boxer’s fracture. I broke my knuckle on a blade aimed for your back. Though I probably need not have bothered. Your dwarvish stubbornness would have shielded you enough.”

Bilbo lapsed off into silence, watching Thorin carefully. Suddenly, Thorin’s back straightened and his countenance lifted like a sunburst through cloud.

“You’re alive?” Thorin asked like he could scarcely believe his own words.

Bilbo nodded once. “I’m alive.”

“You’re alive…you’re alive! Bilbo you’re alive!”

Bilbo barely registered Thorin flying up off the ground before he seized him in an iron grip. Bilbo felt his toes lift from the ground as Thorin spun him in a small circle, his broken laughter echoing around the small room. Thorin settled Bilbo back on the ground but still clung to him, his ragged breaths blowing hot into Bilbo’s hair. “Mahal gave you back to me. Oh, thank you…thank you.” Bilbo let Thorin hold him as Thorin continue to babble. “I looked for you…all night…I did…I had to…and when Nori found your blade…” Thorin let out a strangled sound and Bilbo felt warm wet tears gather on his shoulder.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” whispered Bilbo, running a hand up and down Thorin’s trembling back. “We hobbits are hard folk to find if we’re hidden well enough.”

Thorin snorted, breaking the embrace, but not the physical contact with Bilbo. His hands flitted down Bilbo’s arms, assessing for hidden injuries before settling on Bilbo’s splint. He held Bilbo’s hand with the very tips of his fingers, his thumb running over the break. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t wanted to be found at all,” said Thorin evenly. He turned and took a few heavy steps before stooping and picking up Sting. “I have injured you in far graver ways than this. I have humiliated you, betrayed your trust and threatened you with death. In doing so, I have dishonored myself, you, and any affections you ever had for me.”

Bilbo bit back a small sound of surprise when Thorin knelt before him, Sting resting in the palms of his hands. He extended the blade out to Bilbo. “Thorin,” said Bilbo, “what are you asking me to do?”

“Mark me with my shame,” said Thorin. “I will keep it as short as you see fit until you are satisfied I have paid my debt to you.”

“No,” said Bilbo, firmly shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin cut himself off. Bilbo watched him bite his lip before beginning again. “I do not have any right to ask you of anything, but please, don’t deny me my penance.” Thorin sat quietly, arms still held out, waiting patiently as Bilbo tentatively wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Thorin’s arms fell to his sides, head tilted down, staring at nothing. Bilbo watched Thorin’s fingers curl and his jaw tighten in preparation.

Bilbo tossed sting aside with a clang. “I will not shear you and shame you in front of your people, Thorin Oakenshield, and that’s the last I will say on the matter.”

It was as if all the strings holding Thorin up had been severed. He sat back on his heels, boneless. “I am not worthy of this…this mercy.” Thorin was barely keeping himself from falling to pieces again. “Bilbo, I will make this right…If it takes me to the end of my days, I will make this right…” Thorin’s voice began to warble. “I will be a servant at your side. You shall have a home in my kingdom. I will give you all the honor and respect you deserve and…and all the love I can give. That is, if you still with to bless me with such a gift, of which I am wholly undeserving…”

Bilbo was only half listening. His toes were pressed against Thorin’s knees. He played with Thorin’s hair, teasing the wild curls around his fingers. It was still soft. He wanted to wash it, towel it out and braid new beads into it while Thorin sang the songs he knew in another life. Bilbo wanted to do that for the rest of his life.

Bilbo gripped Thorin’s chin, cutting him off mid-speech and kissed him with the fiery passion that could rival dragon’s flame. Thorin gave a watery moan, which only made Bilbo kiss him harder, gripping his clothes, clacking his teeth and bruising his mouth. “I missed you, ghivashel,” Bilbo breathed against Thorin’s lips.

Thorin held Bilbo is his arms, Bilbo’s face clasped in his hands. Fresh tears spilled over his eyes, but a smile broke across his face, brighter than any Arkenstone. He shook his head, incapable of speech, for there was no tongue in all of Middle-Earth that could say what he needed to say. So, he didn’t and kissed Bilbo again.

Above, Balin nudged Dwalin in the shoulder. Dwalin rolled his eyes and kicked himself off the wall, throwing a last glance at the secluded stairwell. Together, the brothers departed, leaving their king and the hobbit who burgled his heart alone in their little world under the mountain.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 30th birthday to one of my best friends. Enjoy your trip to New Zealand, melon nin.


End file.
